The Incarnadine Demand
by Anvanimaserke
Summary: When Sam and Dean return to Miami in pursuit of the source of a series of strange hauntings, Sam is forced to reunite with an old acquaintance, Dexter Morgan. Meanwhile, Dean unexpectedly meets an old flame from his time down under.
1. The Fated Return

The Impala cut down the wide crowded highway, leaving a fissure of exhaust at its tail. Classic rock wailed over the purr of the engine, and Dean strummed his fingers to the beat as he clutched the wheel, comfortable and one handed. His gaze swung between the road ahead (populated with more homicidal drivers then usual) and Sam, who was sitting stoically in the passengers seat, gazing blindly out the window through his equally disinterested reflection.

"Sammy, you okay?" he was only half paying attention, his focus split as he navigated his precious car through the surging lanes of chaotic traffic.

"Fine, Dean," it was the kind of fine that contradicted its definition. Dean let out a huff, glancing sideways to his brother with hard eyes. He thought for a moment or two, employing the usual detective techniques to see what may have upset his Sammy today.

"… Listen, it's not that I don't trust you with her, okay? But drivers in Miami are fuckin' insane--" the ear-splitting cry of an angry horn "--hey, watch where you're going asshole! Jesus… see? I can hardly--"

"It's not that," Sam held up a hand in defence, ushering his brother's speech to a halt. He broke his stare at the window and turned to Dean with a clumsy, haphazardly applied smile. "I was thinking, do we really need to get the Morgans in on this?"

"What, you opposed to doing this the easy way?" an irate smirk tightened on Dean's mouth as he pushed the Impala through impossible lane jumps; annoyed it was a necessity to survive on the highway but proud he could do it, none the less.

Sam let out a lengthy sigh, idly pushing his hand through his hair. "No, I just… don't think they would be of much use. We're dealing with ghosts, remember? Not really something Miami metro concerns themselves with."

"We're looking for a guy who's somehow spawning these nasty sons of bitches, probably by offing new people in every state--"

"We don't know that--"

"No? You wanna say its sheer coincidence that three new people die in every state the vengeance ghosts pop up in? It's a damn consistent pattern, Sammy. All I'm sayin' is it couldn't hurt to ask."

"… I guess," he finally relented, a little more displeasure in his voice than he meant for.

"There some reason you don't want to talk to Deb and Dex? If they got a profile on the same guy who's setting off these ghosts with his murders--"

"I know, I got it. Forget I said anything," Sam returned his attention to the Miami dusk, forcing down the quell of discomfort in his gut. It would be fine, he stubbornly told himself. He was clean now, there was no reason to worry about seeing Dexter Morgan.

~*~*~*~

A yawn stretched Dexter's mouth as he weaved through the Miami metro parking lot, box of donuts in one hand, travel mug of coffee in the other. As if his mornings had not been difficult enough, the little sleep he managed to squeeze between work, baby-care, husband-duty and his very specialized research was now crowded with vivid dreams. It was not something Dexter was accustomed too; when he slept, all of him slept. But as of late the storms that had been plaguing Miami's nights had left him with these hellish, fantastic dreams. Dreams of artistic kills, of blood spatter like brushstrokes. Of Brian Moser.

It had been at least two years since a thought of Brian had crossed Dexter's mind, waking or not. It had been profound, the day Dexter had sailed out into deep water, and let the ocean swallow his Barbie-head key-chain; the last remaining link to his late elder brother. He had felt weightless and at peace. But now that those dreams were seeping into his unconscious, dark circles were bruising under Dexter's eyes, sleepy sluggishness sneaking into his everyday routine.

"Where's my strawberry filled?" Masuka asked as Dexter stood, donut box open in offering, passing out sugary, diabetes-inducing tokens of his normality. Dexter's fellow lab rat frowned at him over the donut box lid, snatching an apple fritter instead, and stuffing it into his mouth.

"Geez Dex, little off your game today?" he cleaned the glaze from his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Haven't been sleeping too well," he said, navigating around Masuka and through the work area of the office, cluttered with the desks of hired detectives.

"Ah, Harry keeping you up all night?" Well as a matter of fact, the logical, dark-toned personification of Dexter's late father had been talking to him more as of late, but how would Masuka-- "Harrison? You know, your kid?" apparently Masuka had read the bewilderment on Dexter's face.

"Oh, yeah," Dexter gave a small, nervous laugh. "Sorry, I'm not caffeinated yet." Well, that made more sense.

It was then that Debra Morgan struggled through the office doors, clutching an armful of paper-moulting case files and a dribbling mug of coffee. Masuka winced, watching Deb over the rim of his glasses.

"Poor Deb, she's really been a mess after Lundy kicked it. Guess it don't help that her fuck buddy dumped her, huh? Geez, she doesn't even call me a skeezbag anymore. She must me messed, huh?"

"Antone was her boyfriend," Dexter corrected, eyes narrowed in superficial irritation. "Here," he passed off the rest of the donuts to Masuka, hurrying to the door to help his dear foster sister. He swooped in just in time to rescue half her files from tumbling to the ground, gathering them against his chest before carefully taking the rest of the papers from her.

"Fuck," Debra muttered, irritated with her own flustered state. She stood ridged as Dexter took her files, glaring down at the dishevelled papers. "Sorry," she muttered, looking at her elder brother with an expression between totally helpless, and royally pissed off.

"Don't worry about it Deb, take a breath," Dexter offered in his own personal attempt at kindness, following Debra to her desk and depositing the papers. "Alarm giving you trouble again?" She answered with an irritated grunt, throwing back half her coffee in one stuborn gulp. "Fuckin' thing…" It was moments like this Dexter wished there was some substance to his illusion as a normal, feeling human. Perhaps if he really had a heart, he'd have some idea of what to say to his poor heartbroken sister. But as it was, he could only peer awkwardly at her as she dropped herself at her desk, and attempted to sort through her case files.

"Deb, do you…" want to get some lunch? Need to talk? Want some more coffee? All equally valid options, Dexter.

"Oh holly fuck-- you gotta be kidding me," Debra hissed, eyes wide as she starred over Dexter's shoulder. He twisted around in confusion, attempting to locate the source of his sister's apparent shock when--

Sam Winchester. That wouldn't be the name he went by here, not dressed in his crisp black suit under his FBI guise with his elder brother at his side, but Dexter knew better than anyone that a mask is only superficial, and that it didn't change who (what) Sam really was. His throat felt suddenly tight, the stirrings of something, someone dark lurking at the back of his mind eating at his attention. Dexter took a breath, batted those spidery fingers away from the wheel; he couldn't let the dark thing take control, not now. He watched as Sam approached, unblinking, waiting.

"Hey Deb, Dex," Dean greeted, as him and his brother flashed their fake badges, perfectly synchronized. 'Fred Mcdogan' and 'Jackson West'. Dexter forced back a sharp-edged grin. Really.

"What's the matter, can't pick up a phone to let us know you're coming?" Deb sat back in her chair, eyes narrowed "shouldn't surprise me; don't seem to be able to pick up a phone any other time."

"Heh well, you know how work is…" Dean, or 'Jackson', rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, looking at Dexter in silent plead for bail. Oh no, Dexter was not about to shift the attention onto himself; let normal people deal with a broken heart's temper.

"We're here investigating a serial killer," Sam finally spoke up, finally lifting his eyes to Dexter. There they lingered for a lengthy moment, darkened by memory, before he looked away. "Since we've worked with you two before we thought…"

"Just let us know what we can do to help," Dexter responded, all contrived helpfulness. 'I think I may be… glad,' Dexter thought in a moment of clarity. Sam Winchester was back, and what he really wanted to know was the real reason why.

~*~*~*~

And thats chapter one! Hope you enjoyed, reviews are very much appreciated!


	2. Rainfall

"So… you're lookin' for a guy that kills in threes?" Debra's irritation with the return of special agent 'Jackson West' was suspended when she heard the actual reasoning; apparently the 'FBI agents' had been assigned the task of following a killer who selected his victims in threes.

"That's right," Sam reached into his bag, producing an impressive spread of glossy, gory photographs. "We're working on the theory that all of the deaths depicted here are homicides by the same man, even though--"

"They sometimes appear to be suicides. Impressive deduction, agent," there was a quiet note of pride in Dexter's voice that spread a small, badly concealed smile across Sam's mouth.

"Yeah. Are you guys aware of a killer who operates like that in the Miami area?" Sam tried to keep his expression neutral, to ignore the hurricane of butterflies churning in his stomach. He could handle this, he told himself over and over. He could handle being close to Dexter without giving in, like the last time. He was clean. He was over it.

"That's just bullshit," Debra snarled, dropping her feet onto her desk as she sat back in her chair. "Lundy chases this fucker for years and the second he--" she bit her tongue, "… it's just fuckin' lame that someone else gets put on the case now that he can't use the help," she muttered, forcing herself to be angry to mask her utter heartbreak.

"Yeah, that's why we're here," Dean quickly masked, "the agency decided that with such a high profile guy going down while he was investigating, it was worth throwing a few more guys on the case," yeah, that sounded realistic enough, didn't it? Debra fixed Dean with a lengthy hard stare, letting her feet drop as she leaned forward on her elbows, getting right into Dean's space. The elder Winchester played it off nonchalant, raising a dark brow as Debra tried to intimidate.

"Then you better do his case justice, you understand me?" Dexter did not envy the soul on the other end of that stare, and it seemed Sam was relieved his brother was the target of the wayward detective's attention.

"Yes sir," Dean returned with a flawless smile, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. "We plan on nailing this bastard, we just need you to tell us everything we know. In fact, since you look so swamped, why don't we meet after hours, for some coffee? We can exchange details then."

Debra's fiery composure was instantly lost. Her eyes widened and she took on a fluttered air, all to familiar with what a coffee meeting with agent Jackson West could amount to.

"Uhm, no, well, maybe-- it's only that I have a huge caseload and-- I'm probably staying late so, no, I guess. Another time, kay?" Though it was her desk they had all clustered at, Debra stood as if to leave. Dean spent a few moments starring in utter confusion (a turn-down was a rare event indeed) but then fumbled to catch himself. "W-well, can I at least have your number? You know, for investigation purposes?"

Both Sam and Dexter had to stifle a smile; could the man be more obvious? Really, it was _painful_.

"Huh? Oh…yeahIguess," Debra shoved her hand into her pocket, producing a crumpled sticky note. She stubbornly scribbled out whatever had been on it, scribing down her number before shoving it into Dean's hands. "Here… I need some coffee," she mumbled, excusing herself to the other side of the office.

A few moments of awkward silence passed, before Sam finally cleared his throat. "So, Dexter… is there anything you can tell us?"

"You mean, outside the file you should have been sent upon Lundy's… unfortunate termination?" he paused, just long enough for Sam and Dean to exchange glances, before a small reluctant smile cracked across his lips. "Special Agent Lundy has been tracking a killer he calls Trinity. He kills in threes, a young woman, an older woman with two children, and an older man with two children. As far as I can tell, not only are the killings in threes, but his timing, too. It's been thirty years, since he was last in Miami, for example," Dexter sat back in his seat, looking between the Winchester brothers with an unyielding, unblinking stare. "Should we be worried, agents?"

"Nah, not yet, but we'll keep you updated," Dean responded with a balmy grin. "Sounds like our guy, though… you got a visual, yet?"

Dexter only shook his head, and Sam let out a breath that he did not realize he's been holding.

"Well, we'll let you get back to work," he said, stacking his crime scene photos and slipping them back into his case. "We'll contact you, if we need further info."

"Alright. I assume you still have my number, _Frank,_", Dexter could not help an amused grin as he stood, heading back towards his own office. Dean shot Sam an irritated look of confusion, but Sam pretended to be just as bewildered. He wasn't up to explaining the things that had happened between Dexter and him, not now. It was in the past, he reasoned, and not worth digging back up again.

~*~*~*~

_'I'm Dexter, and I'm not sure… what I am. I just know there's something_ _dark in me. I hide it. I certainly don't talk about it. But… it's there. Always. This… Dark Passenger_.'

The words drifted in somewhere between asleep and awake. Sam shifted, the creaky hotel bed whining under his weight as he rolled, trying to get away from it. From him. Those words that two years ago, had called out kindred to his addiction. He hadn't known Dexter well then, walking into that Narcotics meeting on a hunch. It was suspicious that of all those missing people, Dexter had been the one to withdraw their files from the vault. Dean had gotten that information easily enough, with a bear claw and a charming smile to the jolly, friendly-faced vault-keeper. But as Sam loomed at the back of the room, drawing to many gazes in his faux-FBI suit, he knew instantly that it wasn't narcotics Dexter was talking about. It couldn't be.

_When he's driving I feel… alive, half sick with the thrill, the complete wrongness. I don't fight him, I don't want too. He's all I've got. Nothing else could love me, not even… _especially_ not me._

Something in Dexter's voice called to Sam's addiction; his thirst for the darkness that pumped through the veins of humans stained with demons. Dexter felt it, _had _to feel something like it, to talk like that. Sam could remember had tight his throat had felt, how much Dexter's words poked and prodded at his thirst, drawing it to the forefront of his mind, one creature calling to another. Sam pressed his eyes shut, a frustrated growl rumbling in his chest. If it were only that simple, it might have been easier to deal with.

_Or is that just a lie the Dark Passenger tells me? Because lately, there are these moments when I _feel… c_onnected, to something else. Someone, and it's like… the mask is slipping, and things, people who never mattered before are suddenly starting to matter… It scares the hell outta' me._

Dexter was something human, as much as something _else_. It was that impossible partnering that had gotten Sam's attention, drove him to follow Dexter out of the meeting to the café across the street, to climb into his car later that night. But he couldn't think about that now; Sam was clean, and the last thing he wanted was to grapple with that addiction all over again. He wasn't going to start that loosing battle.

Sitting in the quiet hotel room was not helping matters; the silence easily filled with dangerous, wondering thoughts. Sam forced himself up, snatching his keys and heading out the door. The fresh air doused him like cold water, shocking him from his memory-muggy state of mind. The sky was blanketed with thick dark-wool clouds, blotting out the light of dusk. Sam cut down a suburban street, favouring the scents of freshly cut grass and overgrown gardens to truck exhaust and dirty concrete.

It was no problem, he told himself. His addiction was over. He was getting worked up over nothing. Those images, those fragmented memories (dark blood on pale skin, flashing silver blades, Dexter's eyes _almost_ yellow in the dim) were nothing more than that; harmless and distant. He scraped together a calmer state of mind, letting out a tense sigh and feeling some of his tension melt away.

The neighbourhood was pleasant enough, all neat lawns and sprawling, pretty houses. The classic illusion of normality that Sam could no longer bring himself to miss. It all seemed so superficial now, knowing the end of days was looming on the horizon. Did it really matter who had the nicer front garden? He almost pitied them for their ignorance. The lady in white worrying over how her tulips would fair in the coming rain could be spending her time on much more important things, as could the man dragging a lawnmower back and forth across his expensive lush lawn--

Sam stopped suddenly, starring dumb at the man with the lawnmower. Dexter…? What was he doing this deep in suburbia? This was no where near his apartment. Sam shifted uneasily on his feet, caught between turning on his heels and heading back, or approaching to say hello. If everything was as fine as he told himself it was, why hesitate…?

Dexter slowed to a halt at the corner of the lawn furthest from Sam, panting as he wiped his forehead with the back of his palm. Although Sam knew he was going to be seen he stood stock-still, motionless until Dexter's eyes inevitably drifted to his. The elder man managed a startled smile, waving Sam over. He would have hesitated, if not for the fact that it started to rain. Sam gave a reluctant sigh, hurrying across the slick lawn toward Dexter.

~*~*~*~

"Damn… look at those clouds," Debra practically pressed her nose to the café window, peering at the darkening sky. Dean lifted his attention from his coffee, and from the mess of files strewn across the table. It had taken a few attempts, but Dean had finally managed to convince Debra out of her apartment. They'd gone over and compared notes, and Debra seemed to be in a brighter mood. Things were looking up for Dean.

"Yeah… pretty nasty looking, huh? You sure you wanna drive all the way home in this?"

"Not really… it looks like the end of the world out there."

Dean managed a dry laugh, looking back down to his cup. "Yeah, no kidding…"

It wasn't long before the storm had scared everyone into their houses; the rain was vicious and the wind ripped through the streets, kicking up timy cyclones of trash and debris. Soon enough the streets were empty and quiet, save for the hushed whisper of the rain on the concrete…

And the footsteps of a lone man, strolling leisurely up to a quiet white-bodied apartment complex, sitting on the edge of the water. If anyone had been there to look, no one would have glanced twice. He was average-enough on the eyes; a little thin, a little tall, but nothing made him especially note-worthy.

The dark figure climbed the stairs to the second story apartments, drifting by dimly-lit windows, fingers grazing the wet walls until finally, he stopped. The windows there were dark, and the silence told of only emptiness inside. What was Dexter doing out on a night like this?

"Not home, little brother? It's alright, I can wait…"

~*~*~*~

And thats chapter two!! Hope you enjoyed ^^ Thank you very much for reading! Please take the time to review!!


	3. When You Were Broken Like Me

WARNING: This chapter contains adult sexual situations; if you dont like, kindly do not read. Skip passed the flash back to avoid this is it makes you uncomfortable =)

_~*Two years ago*~_

For a few long moments all Sam was aware of was the sound of his own breathing. Ragged, rapid, shallow. Hungry.

"What is it, Sam?" Dexter looked sideways to the passenger seat, cool scientific curiosity shifting across residual awe left in his reptile-gaze.

"Nothing, it's just that--" an awkward laugh might have dispelled the heaviness of the situation, if not for the breathlessness, the _helplessness _rattling in the sound. "It made me a little tired… never steered a car without my hands before," he smiled, gripped the leather passenger seat to brace against his own dizziness.

Dexter had to believe, he had to be shown what Sam could do. But now, left in the after-burn of his psychic demonstration, Sam (or was it Sam at all?) was hungry.

Dexter's slow steady heartbeat was deafening.

"No… You're hungry," his voice was a black-silk purr, his eyes hooded dark drains that sucked in the streetlight, coloring them almost, _almost_ yellow.

And although Dexter was sitting in the driver's seat, he was not at the wheel.

Sam tried to laugh it off, tried to deny, but it all tangled thick in his throat. How had this happened? He could recount the steps, the reasons for climbing into Dexter's car, the conversations that had driven them towards this dizzying climax, but the ends seemed to far exceed the means. It seemed impossible that he was sitting there, panting like a starving dog.

Listening to Dexter's blood singing under his skin. It didn't matter that he understood why he wanted it. The logic of it was consumed by the intensity of the hunger.

"I'm not--"

"Sam… tell me what you want."

"_Blood_," the word clawed up his throat, hissed through clenched teeth. He didn't want to say it, but the need was quickly evolving into a demand. With shaky hands Sam reached into the pocket of his coat, pulling out his small canteen of blood.

Empty. _Fuck_.

"Blood?" Dexter's fascination spiked; they were the same, he realized. Different manifestations of the same monster. "What happens if you don't feed it, Sam?"

"I don't fucking know," a growl, a whine, a break down and admittance of his gnawing frustration. "I… it…"

"You'll lose control," he knew, could imagine the sensation of his own Darkness starving. Was this sympathy? Hard to tell. Dexter reached across the cabin space to the glove compartment, the proximity causing Sam to flinch. His warmth made him want to bite.

Dexter reached into the glove compartment, withdrawing an exacto-knife. Sam's stomach dropped, tied into knots. His heart burst into his throat and throbbed.

"Dexter, what are you--?"

"Can't have you lose control, can we?" the corner of his mouth curved; half a smile, looking as if it was meant to frame fangs. "I almost want to call this feeling sympathy…" he chuckled, velvety and dark, "I've never felt that before, you should be proud."

The blade kissed the pad of Dexter's finger; hardly more than a paper-cut. A single drop swelled, bright in the murky streetlight against Dexter's skin. Sam's mouth went dry, without thinking he closed his mouth on the wound.

The taste consumed him completely. It was only after the initial edge dulled that he noticed the careful, curious touches. Dexter's fingers glided along Sam's jaw, his cheek, carded through his hair, each touch designed to quench his scientific curiosity. Sam's face burned.

"Such an interesting monster," Dexter's voice was hardly a whisper, touched with telling breathlessness. Gaining a killer's attention so completely was seldom a safe action.

"I'm not--" Sam lifted his eyes, stung by what he expected to see; hatred, contempt, disgust. But there was none of that in Dexter's hooded eyes, just a blazing fascination, a mirror of hunger. "I'm… not…"

"It's alright," Dexter raked his nails gently across Sam's scalp, playing with the idea of grabbing his hair. Sam held Dexter's eyes for a few seemingly endless moments. His breath caught, stalled, his hand reaching out hesitantly for the knife. Dexter curled his fingers around the red plastic handle, hesitating a long moment before opening his hand, letting the knife lay on his palm. Sam's eyes darted away; he nodded quick and took the knife, running the blade down the center of Dexter's palm.

It wasn't so much the blood that undid him, but the assurance that it was okay to be broken; that someone else was broken like him. He didn't understand how, didn't realize the specifics of Dexter's malfunction, but at that moment, none of that mattered.

He liked to watch the blood run; hold Dexter's wrist up and let fall down his arm in ropes, lick from his elbow to his palm, tongue the bloody slit. Chew the skin, latch on and suck.

Dexter watched, the fog thickening in his hooded eyes. His fingers twitched as the darkness at the back of his mind thickened, stirred, bubbled to alertness. Dark Passenger jerked Dexter's wheel and his fingers closed in Sam's hair, fisting and jerking him forward.

There was no reason for it, other then the fact that he wanted to see Sam's bloody mouth wince. A slow grin had crawled across his lips. Peeling them back and barring his teeth as Sam recovered from the shock, a growl poised on the back of his tongue.

From there, there was no turning back.

The lines between different shades of need began to blur; Dexter pulled Sam's hair until his head snapped back, barring his throat. He watched the young hunter's pulse ripple and speed under the flesh of this throat, leaning in as if hypnotized by the rapid rhythmic beat. His cheek grazed Sam's throat and Dexter basked in the feel of his fast-throbbing heart, trying to imagine the rush, the euphoria. A small crooked smile hung on his lips, his eyes shutting as his stubble pressed to the too-warm skin, and the toyed with the idea of biting, and feeling the pulse against his tongue; Dark Passenger was awake and brimming with exciting new ideas.

Not fast enough; Sam grabbed Dexter by the shoulders (powerful, forceful hands) and hauled, pulling the slightly smaller man into his lap. The sudden warmth shocked Dexter for a few precious seconds, enough for Sam to pry away his hands. It seemed that whatever darkness lurked inside Sam was not going to take this laying down.

The knife slipped across Dexter's throat; hardly more then a cool titanium sigh, a thread of red hanging on his flesh. Sam's tongue followed the line, leaving the cut near invisible save for the wet trail left from the point of his tongue.

And then Dexter didn't have to imagine, because his own heart was pounding, too.

"Amazing," he breathed, head tipped back as he pressed his palm to his chest, feeling his heart thunder.

"Hn, I haven't even gotten started."

A Chesire Cat smile flickered across his face; Sam had given up the wheel to his seemingly arrogant Dark Passenger, and it was so fucking good to be lost with someone in the storm.

The knife lunged for throat again, but Dexter caught Sam by the wrist.

"Ah-ah, can't have you leaving any dangerous looking marks," it was a slow serpentine warning, stitched together with scalpel-sharp grin. The struggle for the knife was brief and brutal; Dexter was not quite as strong but he was faster. The knife somehow dove into the back seat and the boys right after it, grabbing and pushing off each other, pulling hair and fighting to keep each other back.

Dexter ended up with the blade but pinned under Sam. The space in the back of the large van was fairly generous; Dexter had folded down the seats. Still there was not a huge amount of space, not ideal for fighting someone as large as Sam.

His eyes almost looked black in the dim, but Dexter held his gaze.

"If you want to be fed, you're going to have to behave," he said, a nearly deranged chuckle barely contained. Sam looked so eager, to ready to burst; barely containing himself and his blood lust (or lust-lust, the two had become impossibly tangled).

Then, to reward Sam's tense impatient waiting, Dexter broke the silence between them. "If you want more, I'm going to have to leave a cut where no one else will see, but I don't trust you not to get… _over-excited_. So if you can just wait a few more _seconds_…"

Despite all his dexterous practices, Dexter still had trouble removing his belt one-handed. Once it was undone he shifted awkwardly under Sam's weight, sliding his slacks down far enough to bare the slightest bit of flesh under the hem of his boxers.

The flesh of his inner thigh was pale and smooth, taunt and firm with unclenched muscle. It was the best place to inflict a more noticeable wound, he reasoned; it was seldom anyone had a clear view of that particular area. When he and Rita made love, she was always so focused on his eyes…

Rita. Not a welcome thought. His mind hurried to hush it and sweep it away, a subject for later analysis. Right now, he had to concentrate. He could really hurt himself, if he wasn't careful. He'd leave a fair cut so that it should bleed just enough to satisfy Sam; he could scoop the blood onto his fingers and--

The blade slid across and Sam's mouth was there, latched and starving.

Dexter sucked in a breath, toes curling against the bottoms of his shoes.

"Sam…" a purr, a plea, confusion and appreciation. Euphoria, Bliss, Carnal pleasure. ABC's Dexter was none to familiar with. His fingers shifted numbly through Sam's hair, feeling dull and cool where his skin under Sam's mouth felt frail and hot. The scrape of his teeth milked blood from the wound and he was purring, taking and taking as if he'd never before had the liberation.

Dexter remembered his first kill, the freedom of it. His back hit the floor of his van and he starred out the back window at the orange streetlights, like close up, super-imposed stars. His vision blurred, Sam licked up his thigh. He was harder than he ever remembered being.

And Sam was so lost, he never wanted to be found. To come out of this state would be hellish but to live in it was almost, _almost_ worth it. His eyes clenched as firming flesh nudged insistently at his face, splitting his concentration. There was no hesitation, no thought at all; Sam's finger's dove and grabbed, curled.

His cock was hard, _slick _against his fingers. Sam pulled it from the restraints of Dexter's clothing, held it out of the way as the nursed the oozing cut. Squeezed to keep Dexter docile. Where that had been sparks of shock, perhaps a struggle, perhaps an attempt to turn the tables, any pressure at all brought Dexter to his back, made his spine curve taut like a bow.

But Dexter's body was not the only he had to restrain; Sam himself was so hard it bordered on unbearable. His free hand dove into his own slacks, dipped under his waistband. He fisted himself hard, fisted Dexter, and sucked. The blood gave it all an unforgettable taste. The pleasure cooked every moment into his nerves.

They didn't-- couldn't last long, that way. It was mess when they came in the same rattling instant; cum bursting over Sam's fingers, sliding down his own cock and making his boxer's cling. It was everywhere on Dexter's thighs, his stomach, glossy in the dirty streetlight.

It tasted almost as good as the blood.

_~*Present Day*~_

"Sam?"

"Huh?" the young hunter was sitting uncomfortably in Dexter's (Rita's) living room, too startled by the idea of him married under this roof to relax into the plush white couch. He was wet from the rain, hungry and too drained to rein his memories of that night; it had been a struggle since the moment he had learned he was returning to Miami, but the thoughts that managed to worm there way into his conscious awareness.

"You… alright?" a question that had been programmed into him, but the quirk of Dexter's brow implied honest curiosity. Sam could not help but be pleased that he could still remember his tells.

"Yeah, I was just thinking."

"About what?" he lingered in the doorway to the kitchen, watching the oven as the leftovers reheated. Such a perfect family man; there was suddenly a bad taste in Sam's mouth.

"Nothing."


	4. Stirring Addiction

WARNING: This chapter contains adult sexual situations; if you dont like, kindly do not read. Skip passed the flash back to avoid this is it makes you uncomfortable =)

_~*Two years ago*~_

For a few long moments all Sam was aware of was the sound of his own breathing. Ragged, rapid, shallow. Hungry.

"What is it, Sam?" Dexter looked sideways to the passenger seat, cool scientific curiosity shifting across residual awe left in his reptile-gaze.

"Nothing, it's just that--" an awkward laugh might have dispelled the heaviness of the situation, if not for the breathlessness, the _helplessness _rattling in the sound. "It made me a little tired… never steered a car without my hands before," he smiled, gripped the leather passenger seat to brace against his own dizziness.

Dexter had to believe, he had to be shown what Sam could do. But now, left in the after-burn of his psychic demonstration, Sam (or was it Sam at all?) was hungry.

Dexter's slow steady heartbeat was deafening.

"No… You're hungry," his voice was a black-silk purr, his eyes hooded dark drains that sucked in the streetlight, coloring them almost, _almost_ yellow.

And although Dexter was sitting in the driver's seat, he was not at the wheel.

Sam tried to laugh it off, tried to deny, but it all tangled thick in his throat. How had this happened? He could recount the steps, the reasons for climbing into Dexter's car, the conversations that had driven them towards this dizzying climax, but the ends seemed to far exceed the means. It seemed impossible that he was sitting there, panting like a starving dog.

Listening to Dexter's blood singing under his skin. It didn't matter that he understood why he wanted it. The logic of it was consumed by the intensity of the hunger.

"I'm not--"

"Sam… tell me what you want."

"_Blood_," the word clawed up his throat, hissed through clenched teeth. He didn't want to say it, but the need was quickly evolving into a demand. With shaky hands Sam reached into the pocket of his coat, pulling out his small canteen of blood.

Empty. _Fuck_.

"Blood?" Dexter's fascination spiked; they were the same, he realized. Different manifestations of the same monster. "What happens if you don't feed it, Sam?"

"I don't fucking know," a growl, a whine, a break down and admittance of his gnawing frustration. "I… it…"

"You'll lose control," he knew, could imagine the sensation of his own Darkness starving. Was this sympathy? Hard to tell. Dexter reached across the cabin space to the glove compartment, the proximity causing Sam to flinch. His warmth made him want to bite.

Dexter reached into the glove compartment, withdrawing an exacto-knife. Sam's stomach dropped, tied into knots. His heart burst into his throat and throbbed.

"Dexter, what are you--?"

"Can't have you lose control, can we?" the corner of his mouth curved; half a smile, looking as if it was meant to frame fangs. "I almost want to call this feeling sympathy…" he chuckled, velvety and dark, "I've never felt that before, you should be proud."

The blade kissed the pad of Dexter's finger; hardly more than a paper-cut. A single drop swelled, bright in the murky streetlight against Dexter's skin. Sam's mouth went dry, without thinking he closed his mouth on the wound.

The taste consumed him completely. It was only after the initial edge dulled that he noticed the careful, curious touches. Dexter's fingers glided along Sam's jaw, his cheek, carded through his hair, each touch designed to quench his scientific curiosity. Sam's face burned.

"Such an interesting monster," Dexter's voice was hardly a whisper, touched with telling breathlessness. Gaining a killer's attention so completely was seldom a safe action.

"I'm not--" Sam lifted his eyes, stung by what he expected to see; hatred, contempt, disgust. But there was none of that in Dexter's hooded eyes, just a blazing fascination, a mirror of hunger. "I'm… not…"

"It's alright," Dexter raked his nails gently across Sam's scalp, playing with the idea of grabbing his hair. Sam held Dexter's eyes for a few seemingly endless moments. His breath caught, stalled, his hand reaching out hesitantly for the knife. Dexter curled his fingers around the red plastic handle, hesitating a long moment before opening his hand, letting the knife lay on his palm. Sam's eyes darted away; he nodded quick and took the knife, running the blade down the center of Dexter's palm.

It wasn't so much the blood that undid him, but the assurance that it was okay to be broken; that someone else was broken like him. He didn't understand how, didn't realize the specifics of Dexter's malfunction, but at that moment, none of that mattered.

He liked to watch the blood run; hold Dexter's wrist up and let fall down his arm in ropes, lick from his elbow to his palm, tongue the bloody slit. Chew the skin, latch on and suck.

Dexter watched, the fog thickening in his hooded eyes. His fingers twitched as the darkness at the back of his mind thickened, stirred, bubbled to alertness. Dark Passenger jerked Dexter's wheel and his fingers closed in Sam's hair, fisting and jerking him forward.

There was no reason for it, other then the fact that he wanted to see Sam's bloody mouth wince. A slow grin had crawled across his lips. Peeling them back and barring his teeth as Sam recovered from the shock, a growl poised on the back of his tongue.

From there, there was no turning back.

The lines between different shades of need began to blur; Dexter pulled Sam's hair until his head snapped back, barring his throat. He watched the young hunter's pulse ripple and speed under the flesh of this throat, leaning in as if hypnotized by the rapid rhythmic beat. His cheek grazed Sam's throat and Dexter basked in the feel of his fast-throbbing heart, trying to imagine the rush, the euphoria. A small crooked smile hung on his lips, his eyes shutting as his stubble pressed to the too-warm skin, and the toyed with the idea of biting, and feeling the pulse against his tongue; Dark Passenger was awake and brimming with exciting new ideas.

Not fast enough; Sam grabbed Dexter by the shoulders (powerful, forceful hands) and hauled, pulling the slightly smaller man into his lap. The sudden warmth shocked Dexter for a few precious seconds, enough for Sam to pry away his hands. It seemed that whatever darkness lurked inside Sam was not going to take this laying down.

The knife slipped across Dexter's throat; hardly more then a cool titanium sigh, a thread of red hanging on his flesh. Sam's tongue followed the line, leaving the cut near invisible save for the wet trail left from the point of his tongue.

And then Dexter didn't have to imagine, because his own heart was pounding, too.

"Amazing," he breathed, head tipped back as he pressed his palm to his chest, feeling his heart thunder.

"Hn, I haven't even gotten started."

A Chesire Cat smile flickered across his face; Sam had given up the wheel to his seemingly arrogant Dark Passenger, and it was so fucking good to be lost with someone in the storm.

The knife lunged for throat again, but Dexter caught Sam by the wrist.

"Ah-ah, can't have you leaving any dangerous looking marks," it was a slow serpentine warning, stitched together with scalpel-sharp grin. The struggle for the knife was brief and brutal; Dexter was not quite as strong but he was faster. The knife somehow dove into the back seat and the boys right after it, grabbing and pushing off each other, pulling hair and fighting to keep each other back.

Dexter ended up with the blade but pinned under Sam. The space in the back of the large van was fairly generous; Dexter had folded down the seats. Still there was not a huge amount of space, not ideal for fighting someone as large as Sam.

His eyes almost looked black in the dim, but Dexter held his gaze.

"If you want to be fed, you're going to have to behave," he said, a nearly deranged chuckle barely contained. Sam looked so eager, to ready to burst; barely containing himself and his blood lust (or lust-lust, the two had become impossibly tangled).

Then, to reward Sam's tense impatient waiting, Dexter broke the silence between them. "If you want more, I'm going to have to leave a cut where no one else will see, but I don't trust you not to get… _over-excited_. So if you can just wait a few more _seconds_…"

Despite all his dexterous practices, Dexter still had trouble removing his belt one-handed. Once it was undone he shifted awkwardly under Sam's weight, sliding his slacks down far enough to bare the slightest bit of flesh under the hem of his boxers.

The flesh of his inner thigh was pale and smooth, taunt and firm with unclenched muscle. It was the best place to inflict a more noticeable wound, he reasoned; it was seldom anyone had a clear view of that particular area. When he and Rita made love, she was always so focused on his eyes…

Rita. Not a welcome thought. His mind hurried to hush it and sweep it away, a subject for later analysis. Right now, he had to concentrate. He could really hurt himself, if he wasn't careful. He'd leave a fair cut so that it should bleed just enough to satisfy Sam; he could scoop the blood onto his fingers and--

The blade slid across and Sam's mouth was there, latched and starving.

Dexter sucked in a breath, toes curling against the bottoms of his shoes.

"Sam…" a purr, a plea, confusion and appreciation. Euphoria, Bliss, Carnal pleasure. ABC's Dexter was none to familiar with. His fingers shifted numbly through Sam's hair, feeling dull and cool where his skin under Sam's mouth felt frail and hot. The scrape of his teeth milked blood from the wound and he was purring, taking and taking as if he'd never before had the liberation.

Dexter remembered his first kill, the freedom of it. His back hit the floor of his van and he starred out the back window at the orange streetlights, like close up, super-imposed stars. His vision blurred, Sam licked up his thigh. He was harder than he ever remembered being.

And Sam was so lost, he never wanted to be found. To come out of this state would be hellish but to live in it was almost, _almost_ worth it. His eyes clenched as firming flesh nudged insistently at his face, splitting his concentration. There was no hesitation, no thought at all; Sam's finger's dove and grabbed, curled.

His cock was hard, _slick _against his fingers. Sam pulled it from the restraints of Dexter's clothing, held it out of the way as the nursed the oozing cut. Squeezed to keep Dexter docile. Where that had been sparks of shock, perhaps a struggle, perhaps an attempt to turn the tables, any pressure at all brought Dexter to his back, made his spine curve taut like a bow.

But Dexter's body was not the only he had to restrain; Sam himself was so hard it bordered on unbearable. His free hand dove into his own slacks, dipped under his waistband. He fisted himself hard, fisted Dexter, and sucked. The blood gave it all an unforgettable taste. The pleasure cooked every moment into his nerves.

They didn't-- couldn't last long, that way. It was mess when they came in the same rattling instant; cum bursting over Sam's fingers, sliding down his own cock and making his boxer's cling. It was everywhere on Dexter's thighs, his stomach, glossy in the dirty streetlight.

It tasted almost as good as the blood.

_~*Present Day*~_

"Sam?"

"Huh?" the young hunter was sitting uncomfortably in Dexter's (Rita's) living room, too startled by the idea of him married under this roof to relax into the plush white couch. He was wet from the rain, hungry and too drained to rein his memories of that night; it had been a struggle since the moment he had learned he was returning to Miami, but the thoughts that managed to worm there way into his conscious awareness.

"You… alright?" a question that had been programmed into him, but the quirk of Dexter's brow implied honest curiosity. Sam could not help but be pleased that he could still remember his tells.

"Yeah, I was just thinking."

"About what?" he lingered in the doorway to the kitchen, watching the oven as the leftovers reheated. Such a perfect family man; there was suddenly a bad taste in Sam's mouth.

"Nothing."


End file.
